


Waiting Game

by CravenWyvern



Series: DS Extras [38]
Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Character Death, Ghosts, Other characters mentioned - Freeform, headcanons galore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-04
Updated: 2019-04-04
Packaged: 2020-01-04 18:58:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18349736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CravenWyvern/pseuds/CravenWyvern
Summary: ...sometimes i just want to play on a server as a ghost and nothing more.





	Waiting Game

No one was around when he had died. No one came to revive him either, and the island felt empty, silent, and he wondered if anyone has awoken upon it besides himself as of yet.

So Maxwell waited.

The hounds came, soon enough, barking and loud howls, playfully bouncing up against each other, and the Varg leading the pack sniffed the gravestones, dug a bit at the old mounds of buried refuse, avoided the meteor fields wide scars. He watched, silent, and the dogs eyed him with round pale eyes, lolling tongues as they yipped and barked and hopped about him, young and inexperienced. They tried nipping, snapping, but it was like biting fog, the brief swish and forceful movement of air as they tried to tug his incorporeal form about, only successfully making him sway in whatever accounted as a breeze in this dark, pale world.

The shadows nearby watched as well, waiting, and Maxwell forcefully turned his gaze away and ‘ooo’ed quietly to the pups, their Varg panting in mild distress, resting under a nearby tree and watching him with sharp eyes.

Eventually, she coughed out a howl of sorts, called them to her, and the almost intelligent look given to him, sneered and narrow, would've sent a shiver up his spine if he still had access to one. The hounds left with her, taking their yips, and the few bits of bones they found hefty enough, with them, and Maxwell was alone once more.

He pondered, for awhile, on if he should leave. But, where to?

Another land, another plane, the circle completing itself as always, but there was a slight problem.

Maxwell didn't actually know how to do that.

The wavering shadows nearby, blinking so few and yet so many eyes at him, almost curious but most certainly not, were not offering their aid, and his destroyed corpse, the bones picked over and most dragged away now, would not support him anymore.

Perhaps, with a Life Amulet, but he hadn't even gotten far enough to create one. If he found a touchstone he may have a second chance, but with all the time he's spent searching Maxwell has not seen a trace of such a thing. If he went into the caves looking he'd get more than lost, and even if he did find one down there it would be useless. It was far too dark to revive, down in the depths.

And, it was far too hard to think, like this. To concentrate, even, and the world felt different, when one wasn't a part of it.

A butterfly danced by, landed on what clothing his skeleton had left, confused and prodding around, but the rose was gone, destroyed by the hounds playing, and it found nothing but traces. Maxwell watched it, for awhile, hovering over it as its wings twitched and its green hued antenna wiggled, long limbs climbing it about. After investigating his barren skull, poking about his empty eye sockets, the butterfly seemed to have lost interest and flapped its wings, rising away and fluttering off.

He watched it go, almost had the motive to follow it, but in the end didn't.

His corpse lacked eyes, but it almost looked mournful. For some inconceivable, childish reason, he didn't want to leave it alone.

For once, floating over his own remains and quietly eyeing what constituted as himself, the bones not quite yellowing just yet but mostly cleaned of viscera, slowly bleaching under the sun, Maxwell didn't feel half as lonely as usual.

Whenever night fell, he could feel her presence. It was distanced, cold, and his ghostly faint glow kept back whatever danger his more fleshy form had been terrified of, but lacking all that weight seemed to have put him in a better position. He could hear her, now.

It was faint, like the shadows, thin and all too far away, but he found himself closing whatever it was that replaced his eyes and listening to the threads of incomprehensible whispers, wavering over his own bones as the nights stretched long.

He had no clue on what she said, what she spoke to herself when she thought she was unlistened to, alone, and, in all honesty, he didn't particularly care to ever know. It was her voice, that was all that mattered, and he hasn't heard her in so long of a time that even getting the faint vestiges of _something_ meant everything to him.

He had no heart, that was rotted and eaten up by now in the mess of his discarded ribcage, but listening to the nights voice made something in him ache in an all too painfully familiar way.

Mornings rose, opened up by awakened bird song, and sometimes the things would come down, peck around for seeds or bugs, give him dark, wide looks.

The crows stayed well enough away; their place in this plane was fluctuating, flying off to travel to other constructed worlds, and not much interested them besides their next meal and the shine of trinkets they could make off with in a pinch.

The redbirds were more simple minded; without the heat of their homelands, they grew much laxer, more inquisitive.

One hoped close, eyeing both his skeleton and himself, a vague consciousness hovering over his death place, and twittered to itself, its small flock going about birdly business as is usual. It pecked at the bits of his leftover clothing, rotting as it was, dirtied and now not at all comparable to what he had once worn, and hopped up on what he assumed was the leftovers of his spine, the stick points of his surviving ribcage.

The hounds had taken bigger bones, heftier and useful, and left the rest to rot away. Much like himself, Maxwell mused quietly, slowly, and the thought took longer than usual for him to formulate.

The redbird continued on its investigation, chirping every once in awhile, tilted its head as it clampered over his skull and pecked at what was left of his neck vertebrae. The grass had been growing, Maxwell noticed, and he slowly lowered himself down, brushing foggy pale smoke about as he himself had a closer look.

The bird shied away for a moment, flapping with a surprised squawk and tittering nervously, but when he didn't do much else but stare down at the creeping tendrils of grass and weeds and sprouting growth it eased back into pecking around the bones. Perhaps it has had experience with ghosts, and their inability to truly exist.

He hasn't noticed, but his own bones were not as bleached looking now; cracks and darkened edges, and the flora growing up was rooting through them as much as around them.

The bird twittered, kept a good gap between them, but when he looked over and gazed at it Maxwell realized he hasn't seen much color for quite awhile now. Its reds and yellows were almost stark, in comparison to the wandering shadows and wavering pale world itself.

Slowly he pulled back, gave it, and his skeleton, some space, and found himself drifting into watching it hop about, losing the time until the streaks of dusk caught up and the bird, after a moment of trying to dig around in the small bits of bone that may have been one of his hands, finally straightened up, puffed its feathers up with a quick shake, and took off.

Maxwell watched its go, disappear as it darted away, the rest of its tiny flock going about it in much the same manner. And he was alone again.

But, he supposed, not truly. His own skull still stared up at him, not quite grinning anymore with the loss of its jawbone, which he could see being overtaken by grass and dirt a few inches away, teeth poking up but slowly losing that shine of enamel. The look it gave him now, before darkness could rush in for another timeless night, was much emptier, more true to a corpse than something of the living.

He supposed he was starting to feel the same. Hardly remembering what his own heartbeat felt like, not to mention voice or touch or even movement, of all things, made it a bit difficult to care.

It almost reminded him of more dreadful things, dreadful thoughts, but the thread of memory escaped him and Maxwell was left with the occuring thought that it wasn't as bad as it could be.

The faint shine of a memory whispering of stiffness and constraint and tight bindings, forever and ever and never, hovered on the outskirts of his consciousness, but that was all it did.

For that night, Maxwell could do nothing but listen to the siren whisperings and know he was starting to forget.

There were days, passing by, and long nights, and the darkness grew even longer as the sun dipped and time seemed to change oddly. There was snow on the ground, one morning, and the yellowing weeds about his skeleton were overtaken by piles of ice.

Bits of whitened bone shone out, jagged and cracked and out of order, and he could just barely see his own skull now, and the snow seeped deep into its eye sockets, the gaps of missing teeth carried off by rain or birds or insects, or something else even.

A shadow scampered by close, didn't even grace him with a proper look, and its nonexistent claws trailed over the bones almost delicately before slithering away.

The full moon brought a slow startling surprise, of all things. With the meteor field having been silent for some time, empty of danger, most of the graves have been left fairly undisturbed.

Maxwell knew they'd come up, but the sudden sight of them cut through the slow fog that had crept its way into his core thoughts, and he stiffened up, watched from his snow shrouded corpse as other ghastly leftovers pulled themselves from their graves.

They didn't notice him, at first. Quietly they drifted around, soft oozing whispers here and there, and Maxwell belatedly remembered that seeing such forgotten things as calm as they were now was not part of the game.

They came up angry, frustrated, lost, and took out that festering mess on misguided gravediggers or wanderers getting too close in the full moons light. It wasn't natural, to see them go about a more domestic way.

He almost was able to avoid any confrontation for the whole night, and it must have been the full moons light itself, to so clear his thoughts, because for once since his death Maxwell was starting to feel more as himself and not some faded copy. Perhaps that was why they rose; the clear, lightened night hummed, and he could feel it himself, as if a makeshift heartbeat.

The first one, small, unmarked, came hesitantly, drifting, and its wide, pale eyes almost reminded him of, of...something. There was nothing behind it, however, no other ghost trailing its footsteps, so he dismissed the vague familiarity and drifted back, putting his snow frozen skeleton in between as a makeshift barrier.

They couldn't hurt him, not as he was now, but the rules of this was a bit lost on him, especially now.

It felt as if he had just woken up, and moving in this shallow, foggy way felt different, unlearned, as if he has stood still for far too long. 

There was no whisper from the curious spirit, silent eyes, but it's hovering interest drew attention and the others were starting to see him.

Recognize him? Maxwell hoped not, and it was getting harder keeping distance, what with them starting to crowd about, all wide, pale eyes and all varying, smothering white fog, mist rising up from them and their true graves.

In all honesty, he almost felt a bit jealous. _They_ got to have nice, comfy little plots of land, and here his discarded mortal shell was, vandalized and an ugly blemish in the snow.

It took a moment, to remind himself that thinking such was bloody stupid of him. He had died alone, of course he had no grave, and as if he had ever expected one in the first place.

He almost made the executive decision to run away. They'd not follow him too far, not from their grave sites, and perhaps he could actually try to shake off this heady fog of droning and make an attempt to find a touchstone, or perhaps a living person willing to give him some revival item. If they weren't willing, perhaps he could try to trick them into thinking he was someone else, and in the aftermath of the Life Amulets way he could make his escape.

But then the wandering spirits stopped crowding him, kept a bit of space open, as if he even needed to breath anymore, and their humming whispers quieted down a bit.

It took a moment, to move, and he couldn't speak, couldn't communicate to these lost things, but with an air of decision and a head full of empty fog, drained to the quiet of the undead, Maxwell slowly drifted back to where his skeleton was still located.

The ghosts let him, peeled away to watch, and when he stopped, hovering over the shroud of snow and ice and knowing very little was even left as grave marker, staring down at what was left of himself, he watched as the leftovers, shades, drifted away, back to their own hauntings.

The little one hovered for a bit more, watching him mournfully, and it stayed for rest of the night.

The company, vague, familiar and disheartening as it was, did not get rejected. Maxwell watched over his corpse and its empty, snow filled skull, and the faded thing behind him watched him, before the full moon started it's trek down and away.

And then it, too, floated back to its gravestone, marked in and laid to rest with wilted flowers, and when the sun came up Maxwell raised his gaze to see that none of them had even attempted to stay awake.

Snow birds, blue and high pitched, chuffed and called to each other, rarely coming down to the frozen floor, and the winter nights were long and dark, sunlight few and far between. He could hear her whispers, still, uninterrupted, woven and continued and unbroken, and slowly Maxwell recognized that, the more he listened, closed his eyes and forgot about the physical world for a time, the more and more the glow of him seemed to dim.

The realization of this, too, faded, and the times were long and crawling slow, hovering near his death site and staring into the hollow emptiness of what had been his own eye sockets. The snow might have blinded him, once, had he still has eyes, but now it fluctuated and drifted grey and pale and dark, the slithering sheets of too many planes all stacked atop the other.

The shadows drifted as much as the ghosts did on their consistent full moons, meaningless and almost lost, but their eyes never betrayed even a hint of that forgotten confusion. They looked upon him, blinked with a patience he could almost relate to, and gave him no more mind.

And then there was rain.

It came in sheets, harsh, unforgiving, and the snow was slush and then mud, and Maxwell idly wondered where the time had gone.

Surprisingly, there was greenery, hidden under his old bones, and he watched the sprouts climb and slither and turn this way and that, split in the darkened, watered earth and grow up into stalks and seedings. His skull wasn't completely overtaken, which a vague part of him was rather thankful of, and it was interesting, almost, to watch weeds catch and push and tug their own niche in the grasses, sprout under the roof of what had been his mouth, crawl out from where teeth were now long missing from. Something found its way in his right eye socket, green and tall stalked, some sort of grass with thin, stark branches, and his collapsed spine was being consumed by new mud and growth, the white shard ribs only just a bit exposed now.

No flowers, however, and Maxwell ‘ooo’d to himself, softly, for the first time in quite awhile, as he hovered over the mess of growth and the spring rain encouraged grasses all about the area itself, feeling something deep within him curl tight and ache at the lack of color, of change.

On the other graves, another full moon passing by with drifting, quiet remembrances of the lost, he could see the bulbs and blooms of flowers, carnations and roses and lilies and all other sorts of things he has never realized he had cared for. It would have made him jealous, had he cared for the leftover spirits in such a way.

But they treated him as they treated each other; passing by silently, forgetfully, muttering to themselves and only that, never another. The familiar one hovered close, but nothing else, and perhaps it was all too easy, to follow suit.

The rains lasted for what felt like forever, rolling with vague thunder, and the lightning lit up the night some days, brief flashes of dark grey and paleness, wavering lines and crawling, shuffling shadows.

Her whispers were the only constant, droning on and on, but he could hardly hear them now with the rainfall. If he had his skin still, Maxwell knew it would be cold and dreary and a utter humid mess of discomfort, but he's gone too long without and now it was almost familiar, to ache for a sense of feeling.

The rain poured over him, around him, _through_ him, and he was starting to wish that he could feel it, of all things.

Time passed, as always, and it felt as if he's been awake for so long, so many springs, too many storms. Perhaps, Maxwell guessed, perhaps the other spirits chose to reside in their graves, to sleep, for the escape from the passage of time.

Eventually, he knew, their gravestones will break, fall, crumble, and all they would have left would be an unmarked bump of a hill, small and dirt and nothing else. He still had his bones, they still lasted, even as rain water swept through them, took away more teeth, carpals of the hands and finger bones, loose vertebrae, and the mud swallowed up the lost pieces, downhill to the meteor fields.

But his skull remained, cracked and strained under the conditions but mostly whole, and most of his spine was overtaken by plant life but his ribs were still visible. He didn't know where his lower jaw had gone, unfortunately.

Lightning crackled overhead, shook the world with the rolling thunder, and, looking up into the monstrous bloated grey clouds, watching them slowly sweep across the sky and create the springs massive downpours, Maxwell found himself losing more time. 

It was hard to see the full moon when it next came about, shrouded by the great dark clouds, and very few lost souls came up to breathe. He hovered over the last of his bones, rain falling through him and pooling into dips and curves, dark mud and sodden plant life, drowning it all, and the one little spirit, a mist of blankness and mourning, drifted near as always, gave him it's silent company.

The rains continued, a monsoon of a storm, on and on, and soon it felt as if there was nothing more than this system, of pounding rain that he did not, could not feel, of rivers of water flowing ever downhill, just bypassing his, and the graveyards remains, of the flush of growing plants, soaking it all in and then suffocating under themselves.

And then the rains stopped, and the world changed again.

It was full moon, once more, rain free, and the heartbeat of it seemed ever so stronger, after the claustrophobia of the storming spring. The neighboring ghosts drifted about, whispers and low mutterings he would never be able to understand, and he hung over his skeleton as he always had.

He wasn't guarding it, Maxwell was sure of that, but why he was still here he didn't understand nearly so well.

The drifting of a nearby presence slowly caught his attention, too slowly, and it was only the faintest of remembrances and energy that allowed him to draw back, retreat as the companionable fog of the one ghost who hung around him came near. It eyed him, as mournful as ever, familiar and wrong and just as lost and forgotten as the rest of them, and Maxwell hovered close, not willing to back off from his grave site just yet.

It was curious, perhaps, for it examined his bones, drifted close and shallow, low, its foggy curls and mist sweeping the ground and fading off of it, and full moon or not it felt realer than anything else he's felt in a long while.

It was not dangerous, he reminded himself, and shoved himself forward, glow brightening as he glowered at the thing, daring it to, to…

He didn't know, but this was his grave, damn it, and this thing wasn't going to take it from him. The hounds and the whole rest of this world has already done what they saw fit to do with his discarded shell, and the rest was his, and he'd stand by it for as long as it took to make sure of that.

This was _his_ skeleton, what was left of it, and it would stay _his_.

The flash of genuine emotion, thought and motive, was startling and a bit dizzying and so extremely trivial, but Maxwell grasped onto it as tightly as his slowed down mind could and with that hummed out a string of hissing “ooo”s and drove off the intruder.

The silent stillness of the others, all turning their gazes to him, had him almost mistake it as crossing a line.

It took a second to recognize the defeated pity instead, familiarity and understanding, and they drew back, gave his grave space from then on, and Maxwell didn't know what he should feel because of it all.

The one who had kept by him, the first and only one, gave him a look he couldn't ever understand, ever comprehend. It dragged, slow, and sank a cold, aching feeling to his core, and then its pale eyes blinked and it wandered away, drifted back to its flowered gravestone, remembered and known.

Unlike his unmarked, washed up mess. Why did he care if something disturbed his useless bones anyway?

He didn't, Maxwell decided, and that fluctuating mess of emotions, underneath heady numbness and nothingness, died down for the time being.

Staring down at the last of his remains the next morning, emptied of full moon ghosts, he was left wondering the why of it all.

By next full moon, he still had no answer.

And, by next full moon, it was flowing summer.

The plant life, crawling and living their lives in the niches and crooks of his skeleton, died out quicker than he ever thought possible. They wilted, yellowed, and he hovered over it all, grew concerned, eyes only on his bones.

The last few full moons have given him something, broken through the haze of undeath dreaming, yet all he had was his leftover corpse.

But Maxwell did what he could with himself, because now, instead of the slow drifting of almost sleep, he was most acutely aware again, as if born anew.

Except still long passed, and some days, as the air grew hazy hot and trees shriveled, sparked smoke and bits of flame, as the nights grew shorter and ever shorter, he could, for once, feel his boredom become frantic.

He hovered over his bones, drifted low as to brush them with misted fog, circled them for time on end, something, _anything_ , but there was no alleviating the cluster of manic energy residing inside where his chest had once been.

Awaiting the next full moon with such ferocity would have certainly killed him, had he been among the living once more, and his old bones weathered through the heat, cracked and grew dry, brittle, the grasses long gone and given to dust and yellowed earth.

When it finally rose, when forgotten souls finally rose from their graves and he could see them, they were there, it wasn't just him and his skeleton and skittish, apathetic shadows anymore, Maxwell found himself circling his death site with a profound feeling he couldn't identify, couldn't even express with the way he was.

He wasn't hurt by the way they ignored him, as always. The very fact that they were even _there_ made up for anything else, and he practically paced, full of energy that wasn't his, that he hasn't felt in so long of a time.

He almost considered going out among them, acting as if one of their own, _he wasn't alone anymore_ , when a visiting presence stopped him.

The thing hovered, quiet like, eyes shrouded in its forever mourning, and for a moment Maxwell stilled his circling, stilled himself, as everything of this situation came flooding back.

He was dead, and they were dead, and he was getting excited over nothing. The utter brainlessness of it all, _why was he still here_ , settled heavily upon him with a startling suddenness, and he didn't know, didn't know anything at all.

The ghost crept close, hesitant, and it dragged itself low to the ground. Its glow was different, dimmed and then back, so very subtle, but Maxwell had drifted low over his skeleton, right over his broken, old skull, and the heaviness in him called for sleep, for change, for _something, anything_ but this.

There was a hummed “ooo”, a slow sliding whisper of sound, the first he's ever heard from this ghost, and it suddenly cleared, glowed bright, and disappeared in a huff of clouded up mist.

And then it was pulling back, snapping tendrils of smoke away, and it watched him mournfully as he looked down upon the flower it had left behind, the shine of recent possession and movement only leaving it a few moments after.

The flower was red, was not a breed he knew of, nor could name, but it shone in the foggy world of undeath, was crystal clear in the wavering layers of shadow worlds, and Maxwell hovered over it for a long, long while.

Next to his discarded skull, the haunting having flung it to his skeleton with precision, and he stilled, slowed down next to it, the red a glitter of change next to the yellow bleach of bone and empty, empty eye sockets.

The other ghost took back to staying near, after that. Again, the companionship was not driven away, and Maxwell stared down at the gifted flower, seated next to his skulls narrow cheekbones, and the mournful spirit, nearer him now, watched.

Perhaps he was the most interesting thing it could put its eternal life into watching. After awhile, watching the flower wilt, dry, dust into nothingness beside his hardened bones, Maxwell decided to not take offense to such a thing.

Summer had its run, in a heat he could not feel, only stare at the blinding sun and wait for, and the mania was gone now, leaving an emptiness in his chest to keep him company. Full moons were not every night, and the dark held her whispers for him to close his eyes to and drift off with.

And then it was autumn again, and time passed, and the birds fluttered down as they usually did, gave him and his floating, ghastly appearance wide looks before going about their birdly business, and Maxwell hovered by his broken, mostly missing skeleton and found himself waiting.

For what? He had no answer.

Was there more snow, more that became blizzards, cold and blinding white and silent, empty? Were there more rainstorms, monsoon downpours? Heat waves, lines wavering over baked ground, and then slowly evening back until the trees shed orange and red and yellow leaves and started again?

Probably. Maxwell found that time didn't have a care for him, and it passed all too swiftly, familiar in overtone but so jarringly different from what he vaguely remembered. His skull gave him company, in the gap toothed glory of undeath, and he hovered close and did nothing more.

Hounds didn't come frequently, if at all, and now they gave him a wide berth, no traces of death smell or rotting flesh to ease their animal brains. Soon enough there was a different Varg leading the packs, and she eyed him with paranoid curiosity, lacked the experienced bitter hatred, but she kept her pups well enough away. The shadows were much the same, and very few crawled close, very few even seemed to see him now.

One summer, listening to the crackling puffs of another tree arching up with flame, the blinding sun heat turning down to a short red dusk, Maxwell eyed a shadow as it slithered over, turned its heavy head and blinked eyes at him, running its claws over the remains of his bones as it pulled itself along. Its tail twined about the remaining notches of his barely there backbone, sliding over the hints of his ribs, and it, for a mere moment, met his empty, slow gaze with one of its own, and laid its clawed hand upon the top of his cracked, crumbling skull.

If he concentrated, Maxwell tiredly, slowly, belatedly articulated to himself, perhaps he could have felt it.

When it finally left, it did not come back.

It was autumn again, him hovering lowly, slowly, ever so slowly falling to the green grass as the days passed, the sun rose and fell and the moon climbed and then dropped, listening to the whispers of the night with half closed eyes and taking in the energy of the full moon just to rise those few inches of air he had lost over the years. It was autumn, now, a new, present autumn, when something else of note happened.

It was not butterfly, nor bird, no insect or full moon ghost or skittish shadow, no curious hound or wandering otherwise. No, no, it was none of that, none of the _usual_.

And its voice, its steps, it's very breathing, took such a long time for him to understand, recognize as other and nothing less.

“Found the graveyard.” A heaved sigh, foreign, distorted by wobbling shadows and pale lines. “Finally.”

It took a lot more than he thought, to pull away from his skeleton and rise back up, and he was ever just so tired.

What was he waiting for again?

There were two of them, shovels in hand, and he silently watched as they went about the graves, looked over the stones and mused to themselves.

They talked, too, sounds different, so very different from the night's voice, from anythings voice he's heard in a great while, and it took them a bit to notice his very presence. Long enough to make him feel the vaguest of worries, the vaguest of actual feeling, emotion, for once. 

When they did it was silent, quiet.

“...That still offends me, as a scientist.”

“They seemed to have risen from their grave.”

They didn't draw near, kept far enough away, and he hovered, slow and foggy and all too blank, not willing to pull away from his skeleton.

There wasn't much left of it, really. He looked down, lethargic, slow, and perhaps his skull couldn't withstand last summer, because there was nothing left but a slight raised mound, grasses and weeds, flowerless, and nothing more.

Or perhaps it had been last winter. He hasn't been keeping track, really, and even staring down at it as staunchly as he had been still meant he lost time, and apparently awareness.

The revelation wasn't met with as much feeling as he remembered reacting. In all honesty, he didn't think he even cared anymore.

The two newcomers talked, chattered, and kept their distance for the most part.

He didn't feel anything, when they started to dig up graves. And no vengeful ghost rose up to berate them for it.

They didn't take all of the graves, not all at once; every few upturned, vandalized mounds they'd leave, say a few muttered graces, and the next morning had them back, digging around.

Like the birds, almost, and he wondered vaguely on if their plumage and motive was one and the same. Red and black, yellow and white; redbird and canary.

He never got to see canaries all that often; they preferred solid, stone ground, the promise of man made introductions. There wasn't much of that, here with the undead.

They were kind enough to rebury the now empty mounds, at least; he wondered if, next full moon, there would be less spirits to rise now. Were they allowed to leave, like this?

But, where would they go?

He supposed it should have been inevitable, for them to make their way to his resting place.

It was morning, the night having been filled with whispers that he hardly remembered anymore but still almost drifted off to, and they stood nearby, shovels in hand, watching.

Waiting? Perhaps. He didn't know what for, however, and hovered over where his skull had once been, overtaken by long grasses and dry, empty earth. If they dug, they would find nothing; no one had buried him, and nothing of his has survived the passage of time.

But he'd not let them dig. It was quiet, and too slow, right now, to care, but there was the faintest of feeling, protectiveness, and if they drew close with those shovels ready in hand he had no sympathy.

This was _his_ , after all. It was all he had left.

But they paused, drew something else out of a bag, and the beat of it, red and flush and dizzying, was familiar enough to actually draw his attention from circling dully as it was want to do.

For a moment, there was consideration, a half step towards him with the offering held out, and he almost went to meet it.

Almost.

“...The dead are meant to stay that way.”

“Then this isn't such a good idea.”

And the heart was pulled away, back, and he watched it go, hovering, silent, over his empty grave.

He didn't know what to feel, then. But, there really was nothing to feel in the first place.

They left, after that. Perhaps his empty grave, guarded by his hovering, mist fogged self, wasn't quite worth it.

They didn't come back.

The next full moon, each lost spirit risen once more, shallow and empty and as faded as ever, as forgotten as ever. They hardly looked upon him, but when they did their gazes slid off just as easily as they did with each other, and their wandering brought them close, brushing by in their vain, slow searching.

The little one hovered nearby, giving him slow, mournful looks, as companionable as it has ever been, as silent as ever.

He couldn't hear her, when it was full moon. The ghostly whispers and cries were too loud, drowned her out, and the ache in him has smoothed over, was smothered with an exhaustion he's never truly considered before.

He was just so tired, and his grave was so very empty, filled with bone dust and nothing else.

...there truly was nothing else, was there?

He looked over at his company, meeting its mourning, grief eternal gaze with one of his own. It gave him no answer.

By next morning, there was nothing but an unattended mound, covered by grasses and weeds, as flowerless as it has always been. 

It's guardian slept, for once in his all too long life.

Even under the very earth, doused in undeathly fatigue, the nights siren song reached out as unclear as ever, and he listened, and fell under the covers of it all.

It wasn't peace, but he supposed it was the next best thing.

**Author's Note:**

> ...sometimes i just want to play on a server as a ghost and nothing more.


End file.
